


Will is a Teenaged Girl

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Genderswap, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU. When students turn up dead in seven Baltimore schools, Jack Crawford and the Criminology Club pursue their dangerous chance to find the killer. But who's the quiet new girl, and why is their AP Psychology teacher Dr. Lecter suddenly so interested? Yes, Will is actually a teenaged girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify, almost every adult character except Hannibal is now a high school student. Hannibal, for his own reasons, has rearranged and thinned his psychiatrist's schedule so that he can teach for a year at a Baltimore public high school.

Willow Graham closes her eyes and drifts out of herself as the golden pendulum swipes.

_Neon tape and flashing lights plaster the crime scene. Special forces and local officers circle the house, snapping photos and talking between themselves. There is a stretcher emerging from the front door, and a lock of dark hair peeks out from one end._

_It's the perfect angle, when one agent says something and points to the stretcher, how the medic lifts the white sheet. Dried blood. Gashes. Limp pale skin. But the bright gold flashes once, twice, and the grisly gunshot wound closes. The blood pours back in, time reverses, and-_

"Willow."

She blinks, feeling the classroom around her again. It's seventh hour AP Psychology. A few sniggers from behind her confirm this.

"Miss Graham, are you feeling ill?"

_Probably_. Walking home from work yesterday, she had caught a glimpse of the police taking away the corpses of a murdered couple. Will had walked away quickly before she could recreate too much, even if all the evidence was fenced off inside the house. She hadn't done the  _thing_  since she was fourteen, when a neighbor had been shot dead in the sketchy area Will's father had them living in. After they moved to Will's second high school, the disturbances had settled down. She'd never even needed to tell anyone about her special condition.

Will forces a smile. "No, I'm okay."

Titters sound from the back of the room. The class was notorious for attracting slackers and delinquents, people there for the credit of what was unofficially accepted to be the easiest AP course. The only glitch was the new teacher, a venerable Baltimore psychiatrist with more publications and accolades than the high school -Will's third already- knew what to do with. Will hears his footsteps grow closer and closer until she sees Dr. Lecter's russet brogues stop before her desk. Expensive wool rustles as he crouches down to Will's eye level.

"Will." She stiffens at the proximity of his accented voice. "If your body is not functioning, your mind, however brilliant, suffers as well. Now, do you require the nurse's office?"

"I don't."

The leather shoes remain very still. "I hope not. Then we shall resume class."

Will sinks into her chair, releasing a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. When the bell rings ten minutes later, she is the first out the room.

* * *

After school, Will drops her backpack and wriggles onto a couch. She had found a job shortly after their move here. The auto parts shop is a twenty-minute walk from home, which is a rundown but inhabitable roadside construction near a straggle of trees. Dad had gotten it for cheap. He'd talked about better-paying chances here, and they had moved near Baltimore soon after Will's sophomore year.

She misses her dogs, strays she'd greeted and fed each day in Louisiana. They aren't here, though. Will takes out old lasagna from the fridge and eats it over precalculus homework. Her dad will be home late, so she leaves him a post-it note on the table. Some days she worries if he knew where the food was at all.

The sky is an inky blue by the time Will cleans their small kitchen and folds what little laundry they have. She locks the doors and windows, and turns on the lamp by her bed. What homework had required Internet access, she'd finished in the school library. Thirty minutes go into chemistry worksheets before Will tucks herself into bed.

Dr. Lecter had not assigned homework in her whole week at the school. Then again, it was only the first week.

* * *

Lunchtime is its own special brand of awkward hell. Weaving from one glaring table to another, Will makes her way towards her usual secluded corner towards the back of the cafeteria. She's on free lunch at school, but the food doesn't come with a prepackaged seat.

"Hey, wait up!"

Will keeps walking, and almost drops her tray when a large hand actually pulls back her arm. "I'm sorry?" she splutters.

It's a senior she recognizes from her fifth hour. Athletic, well-liked, academically talented black guy whose ID names him as Jack Crawford. He holds out a cloth bundle meaningfully. "You left this on the fruit counter?"

"Yeah. I guess so." She takes the well-worn sweater from Jack. "Thanks."

He doesn't leave, but raises an eyebrow expectantly. "You got somewhere to sit?"

A few shouts behind them alert Will to a table of about eight people. One girl stands up and waves.

Jack turns back with a grin. "That's my girlfriend, Bella. She's co-captain of the dance team. I was getting up to grab her some napkins, but since I'm talking to you...you might as well come over and meet her."

"Oh, ah, that's okay."

"No, it's perfect." Jack looks smug as he firmly motions for Will to walk with him. "Because you're the new girl, and everyone's wondering where you're from. I don't blame them, since people are nosy and you haven't really talked to anyone yet. You're also in several of my classes, and look like you understand what's going on in Ormerod's stats class, so..."

They near the table. Bella Eades is chatting to a couple other girls who also wear dance team lanyards around their necks. Two guys are discussing something animatedly with an Asian girl who occasionally nods or chuckles. In the corner, another student discreetly texts while his friend dutifully shields him from teachers on patrol. Will recognizes  _Phyllis_ -except-she's-Bella and a boy named Brian Zeller from her seventh hour class.

She smiles when they look at her curiously. "Hello," she offers. "I'm Will Graham."

Brian Zeller breaks the silence eagerly. "You're the new student in seventh hour, right? I remember you almost passing out yesterday when we started discussing the Marlow murders from last week."

"What Brian means," interrupts the Asian girl, shooting him a look, "is that he was offended when you didn't laugh at his insensitive jokes about innocent people dying." She clears some folders off the seat next to her. "Here. And I'm Beverly Katz, by the way."

_So even people who aren't in that class know._  Will sits, thanking the girl and internally cringing.

Across the table, Jack Crawford has squeezed in next to Bella and is already digging into his mashed potatoes. "Brian wants to be a forensic chemist," he explains between mouthfuls. "He and Jimmy are terrible people, so you should ignore their morbid jokes unless you're also really desensitized to death and violence and things like that."

"I'm okay with it," says Will. She clears her throat. "And I'm sure the dead people don't mind either."

There's a split second where everyone's expressions freeze, where Will's heart clenches in terror. The next second, though, the table is laughing, half in relief and half in genuine mirth, and Will feels her pulse settle down to a pleasant tempo. Soon, she knows she's grinning, and Brian leans over to smack her a high-five, congratulating her on making Beverly a temporary horrible person as well. The conversation turns to her classes in Louisiana, with one girl asking her if they had alligators in their backyard.

Lunchtime, for the first time in many years, passes in a haze of something that could even be described as  _normal_. She lets herself relax and smiles almost the whole twenty minutes.

* * *

The schools sends notices home with its students that Friday. Seventh hour chats among itself as binders snap open and papers are handed around. The promise of the dismissal bell lingers in every darting glance, every twitching hand.

"The purpose of this notice, of course," announces Dr. Lecter, "is not to summon panic. Your high school merely wishes to address any parental concerns that may involve the local disappearances publicized in the paper this morning. Yes, Miss Lounds?"

A red-haired girl in the second row is raising her hand rather determinedly. "You said parental concerns. Did you mention that a girl has disappeared from every public high school in Baltimore  _except for this one_?"

Will groans. She dislikes this girl, but as ever empathizes with her. Exposure. Attention.  _Sensationalism_.

Behind her, the delinquent portion of the class is whispering and snickering at the latest twist. They're much too intimidated by Dr. Lecter's sheer presence to text in his room or openly goof off, but Will is used to their occasional muffled antics.

Hannibal Lecter smiles charmingly. "Well, now you have spoiled the secret."

"But isn't it true?" presses Freddie. "I think we'd all like to know that someone from our school is next."

A few gasps sound, and Freddie's eyes shine with gloating. The students watch Lecter as he shelves a leather-bound book. He takes his time, and adjusts his silk pocket square afterward.

"Miss Lounds, your urgency is understandable. There is nothing quite like self-preservation to add menace to a headline." Turning around to face them, Dr. Lecter inclines his head very slightly to a now uncertain-looking Freddie.

Will thinks there's something magnetic about the way he smoothes the lapel of his cobalt suit.

* * *

"So what do you think of your new classmates?"

Mr. Graham holds out a hand for the heavy lug wrench, and Will obediently hands it over. The old motorboat is out of the shed again, its clunky engine and tangled wires like a metal autopsy scene.

"I think they're alright." She wipes her forehead.

"That's all you're going to tell me?"

"Well." Considering, Will adds, "There's a few guys who are really into criminal science and psychology, they're nice. I talk to them at lunch."

"Made new friends already?"

Watching her dad tighten a screw, Will wonders if she has. "There's Jack, who I met first. You should hear him go on about those girls who've disappea-"

The ratcheting noise stops. "Will."

"I know, Dad."

" _Will_. Promise me you'll be careful."

"I won't have to," she says. "The killer, or kidnapper...they haven't found any bodies yet...he's looking for a very specific type of girl."

"He's looking for a victim from your school," cut in Mr. Graham harshly.

"I've  _seen_  the pictures of those seven girls." Will yanks out a burnt-out wire. "They all look alike, and I definitely don't fit the profile. When he does strike again, it'll be because he's trying to soothe his need to kill one specific girl. She's the one he's approximating the others off of."

Will feels her hands shaking.

"Hey." Mr. Graham's voice is soft. "It's okay to think. That's what our brains are for, right?"

Her hands are grease-stained and calloused, with chipped nails. Her thin cotton shirt clings with sweat. "I just did it again, didn't I?"

A sympathetic look from her dad tells her that her mind shouldn't think and understand in some of the ways it does. Will doesn't want to think about what could happen if he found out about her reaction to murder scenes. She doesn't want to be broken, to feel the essence of who she is slip away under someone else's dark impulses.

She stands up. "I'm going to take a shower."

* * *

On Wednesday, Jack Crawford confronts her in statistics class about her "behavior," as he calls it. His blunt judgment of her actions makes Will roll her eyes at Jack's leadership complex.

"...become withdrawn, testy, and haunted. You pick at your food at lunch, you've stopped taking off your glasses in between classes, and you barely talk to anyone!" Jack pauses, catching his breath. His forehead creases into a frown. "What's so funny?"

Will sniggers at his agitation. "That rhymes. Glasses...classes."

"Stop it!" Jack almost stomps his foot. "I am telling you, Will, that you need to get it together. Otherwise Brian  _will_  stop hitting on you one day."

"Oh no!" Will smirks as she flips  _Elementary Statistics_  to page 146. "Where else am I going to hear so many dead baby jokes?"

They are covering cognitive biases in this mini-unit, which they'd been planning to discuss in Dr. Lecter's class as a interdisciplinary tie-in. Now, Will is reading about hypothesis tests just to annoy Jack.

"...serious. Look, I've already talked to Dr. Lecter in my third hour, and he's going to let me come in during seventh hour. You're not acting like yourself, Will. If this has anything to do with that notice sent out on Friday about the missing girls-"

Will tenses.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," says Jack scathingly. He casts a look towards Mrs. Ormerod at her desk, and turns back. "If we're going to go through with the club, we need everyone involved to be alert and charming. That inclues you."

She doesn't understand. "What is who going through with?"

"Exactly!" He shakes his head. "I've been talking about nothing but this for the past three days at lunch! I wouldn't even let anyone else interrupt me-"

"I believe you," she says automatically.

"This just  _proves_  you're out of the loop, Will. I mean the Criminology Club I've been trying to start. We need ten student signatures and a teacher sponsor to do it. Our presentation for Gonz is next Tuesday! What are you even thinking about when you're staring off into space?"

"Dr. Lecter's ass, obviously."

Jack snorts a little too loudly, and several students nearby grumble over their textbook pages. Mrs. Ormerod, though, is fixated on her computer screen with a box of Lean Cuisine in her hand. Still safe.

"Good. Then you can tell him that in seventh hour today. There's a test today, which means you'll finish in ten minutes and the three of us can talk out in the halls. I need you to be coherent, Will."

He gets up to sharpen his pencil, and Will is left alone at her desk.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack Crawford has only twice in his life felt such angry,  _stupid_ frustration. Once was during a football game his sophomore year, when Ryker just _had_ to slip before the touchdown line, single-handedly crushing Coach Adams and the varsity team's dreams for the season in a messy tackle. Wet mud, his ass. The other time is-

"I don't need a psychiatrist," says Will.

Arguing with Will Graham, he concludes, is like forcing a wounded but stubborn mongoose to clear the road. Her mousy hair is tied in a bun, showing her angrily flushed face. The glasses are askew on her nose, and Jack feels a ridiculous urge to tweak them into place. 

He tries to soothe her. "No one says you do. I'm worried about you, and Dr. Lecter said he'd help."

Maybe it was something he'd said earlier, about Alana's concerns. His once babysitter kept in touch even after her acceptance to Georgetown, and had advised reaching out to his new friend Will during their last Skype chat. That, plus the chance to snag Dr. Lecter for his club sponsor, had spurred him to schedule a meeting.

"...not talking to him about _that_. Not even my dad knows about that."

She looks a haunted creature with her jaw clenched. He just doesn't have the heart to poke harder.

* * *

Colorful backpacks and shorts bustle by outside as Jack sits outside the office glass. He clears his throat, tuning out the noise of the halls. A door opens, thank God.

"Please come in," says Dr. Lecter.

The man is all charm and bespoke silver-blue suit, his hair combed back the way Jack thinks a Romanian count's might be. Dr. Lecter steps aside as Jack glances around the office.

A heavy oakwood desk sits at the end of the room, an ornate rug under its carved legs. He spots a world map of wine regions on a wall, and a bonsai tree encased in obsidian. Jack scoots onto the chair by the wicker horse sculpture while Dr. Lecter moves behind him.

"Can I offer you a drink of water?"

Tinkling water fills a tall glass, which Jack declines with a smile. He tries to stay calm as Dr. Lecter sweeps into the armchair behind the desk.

"So, Jack," he says cordially. "What is our business today?"

He frowns down at his sweaty hands. "I'm actually here for a friend of mine...you know Will Graham?"

"I am familiar with Willow's essays and tests, yes." Those tapered fingers - _musician's fingers_ , he hears Bev say- adjust a sheaf of sketches. Precise sketches. "As for Miss Graham's personality, that is something she has chosen not to share."

He hears himself laughing. "Ah. Well you see, Dr. Lecter, that's kind of why I'm here. Earlier today I told you about our Criminology Club idea. I _also_ said that someone else would be here, but now..."

"Miss Graham is not interested," finishes Dr. Lecter, fingers unmoving. He listens as Jack explains the last few days' events, nodding periodically but never leaning forward. He is polite and gracious, but clinical in a way that's both fascinating and frustrating. 

At one point Jack almost _dies_. "That's not normal for _her_. I get that Will's moodier and jumpier than most people- I mean, half the school already knows that much!"

Guilt floods his senses. Dimly sounding laughter floats in from the hallways, and he's acutely aware of every medicinal science journal on those shelves. Jack grabs eye contact as he lowers his voice.

"She said that the girls are being taken by one man, that he's killing them," he says quietly. "He's getting a new one every week to replace the last. He tries to satisfy his craving for his...golden ticket. That's what Will said. Funny thing is, I believe her. Don't you, Dr. Lecter? It makes sense when you think about it."

He knows he has the psychiatrist's attention when Dr. Lecter rises, a nod to Jack as he shuts the office door. He smoothes out his peaked jacket when he returns.

"Go on," says Dr. Lecter.

"Something about seeing into the minds of killers...I don't know. She says she's done it before. Not just for killers, of course," he rushes. "People at school, work, and any place she wants to understand someone."

Dr. Lecter is watching patiently, and suddenly Jack feels defensive. Or stupid. He's not sure which.

"Look, she was able to reconstruct the _precise_ details of the Marlow murders just from seeing their corpses outside. She knew that it was premeditated by a skilled gunman who wanted to inflict as much pain as possible, who wanted the element of surprise. Now tell me, how would she know that?" It comes out angrier than he meant it to.

When his cheeks stop burning, Jack looks up at the renowned psychiatrist -author of _The Evolution of Social Exclusion_ , he fervently remembers- and is surprised to find that Hannibal Lecter is actually  _chuckling_. His eyes are gleaming with a hint of _is that maroon?_ as he stands up to grasp Jack's limp hand. It's hard to believe the deeply rasping voice.

"I will sponsor this club of yours. And Jack."

It's a clearly ringing command for him to turn around at the door. Jack raises an eyebrow at his generous, knowledgeable, _brilliant_ , smiling new club sponsor.

"Do not worry about our good friend Will," he hears through exploding fireworks and the trumpets of heavenly angels. "I will take good care of her."

* * *

The grass is soft under her back as Will breathes in the sunlit courtyard. Her backpack rests under her head, and she props her feet on tree bark.

Sixth hour English is reading outside on the green today. A book is tucked onto her ribs, and Will lies away from everyone else. She stops turning pages when a shadow looms over her.

"You're the new girl, huh?"

She squints up at the boys. Their eyes glance over her, trailing over the open pages, framed glasses, the rumpled cotton jacket. Her skin prickles as she frowns at the page. The words almost drown out the quiet sniggering and whispers.

Soon a heaviness _oomphs_ next to her. "So, where are you from?"

Will blinks off her glasses, brushing them against her shirt. "Louisiana."

She thinks it was loud enough for him to hear without leaning in. Her shoulder quivers from the sudden warm breath.

"Sorry, didn't catch that," he teases, and the tone makes her look. Really, he's not bad-looking with sandy hair and sea-blue eyes. The kid looks like a beach, all tanned limbs and seashell neck chain. "You're Will Graham, right? I didn't recognize you from the roll on the first day."

Some tension fades as she nods. "Yeah, I just moved here. From Louisiana," she adds for the grin in his eyes.

They sit there joking for a bit, relaxing to stretch fully along the grass. When the guy's other friends shout at him from across the courtyard, he scrambles up and excuses himself to Will. It makes her eyes widen when he gives a name and asks for her phone number. She furrows her forehead at the book as he jogs off towards his friends.

School has always been a transient state for her. Watching the teacher yell at frisbee players, she realizes that she hasn't finished her reading either. Will feels her mind wandering from _Crime and Punishment_ , a new idea taking root. Maybe she doesn't look like the perfumed girls in her classes, but it's pleasant to think that someone finds her pretty, even normal. Murders and golden pendulums don't have to define her.

* * *

Classes are a flurry of activity in the days leading to the Homecoming dance. Boys hide bouquets of fresh roses under desks and girls squeal in delight.

Emotions are running high, and Will can feel them all in sharp clarity, twisting her gut into rainbow balloon kittens and her tearducts into rejection cleansers. She sits quietly over her psychology worksheet, letting the minds of her classmates pour over her. It's an exercise in restraint, she tells herself. A chance to test her condition in harmless situations. Her pencil taps.

"Imagine what else you could do with it," she had heard Beverly urging. "I know it must be pretty terrible from the way you told us. How about when people are asking each other to the dance, though?"

Feeling absurd, Will had shrugged while Beverly laughed at her ill-used smile.

She finishes the assignment before anyone else. Her chair scrapes as she moves to the turn-in rack, eyes conscious of every jitter in Nicholas Boyle's hands. The classmate is lanky with wild brown hair, but today he gulps over a pastel-stripe tie as he rakes over his hair. The papers slide into the slot, but Will pauses to _feel_ him.

Anticipation straightens her spine, and anxiety glues her gaze to the worksheet. Rolled posterboard juts in her bony hip, a reminder of the ticking clock over the projecter screen. She raises Nicholas Boyle's hand as their teacher passes by. _Almost time_.

"Dr. Lecter," he calls from behind her, "can I present my project now?"

A motion from her other side alerts Will to the seventh hour's entire reaction. Several girls are giggling into their palms as Dr. Lecter sweeps off his plaid jacket, controlled as a dancer. She finds her own mouth falling open as the shirt stretches taut across his back. It takes a moment to realize he's lifted a heavy box from under a table. She barely notices Nicholas Boyle as he scurries to the patient teacher with posterboard in hand.

She'd like to pretend Dr. Lecter's bent head doesn't make her mind wander from filial imprinting, back at her desk later. Which it doesn't, she reasons, as she listens to his low-throated, fluid voice reply to some question she made up. His hair is sandy. That's the problem with Dr. Lecter's hair, she muses. It's all too many shades of _ash_ and _sand_ under different lighting. For now, as he glances up into her eyes at three in the afternoon, it's a warm shade of honey brown.

An electronic wail jolts her back into _Will Graham_. Shoulders are quaking silently as the classroom listens to Nicholas Boyle sing into his wired sound system.

Will blushes.

That was a terrible idea, she scolds to herself. Every goosebump on her thighs is aware of Dr. Lecter's closeness. Suddenly, the inches between their knees scald with tension. Her gaze veers away with a grimace she can't help at being caught in the mind of a-

The lithe redhead shrieks and leaps into Nicholas Boyle's arms.

 _Teenaged girl_ , she thinks in resignation.

She stutters an excuse, forcing her mind into chapter eleven as the psychiatrist steps away. She wishes, not for the first time, that she were a grown man living alone. With dogs. All this hormonal haze is spinning her already turmoiled mind into a much scarier frenzy.

* * *

At home on the couch, she flips the book from English class closed. A text from the guy today lurks in her phone.

Will reads the film ratings, absently patting a dog-shaped block of air next to her.

* * *

There's a hallway fight the next day, between two girls she barely recognizes. Crowds are blocking the way to her art class. For once her elbows aren't sharp enough.

"Watch it!" snarls one boy as his neck stretches.

For the next two minutes, Will pushes her way through sweaty backs and hooting voices. She hears the high-pitched shrieks get closer as she nears the edge of the throng. On accident, an errant shoe catches her, and Will stumbles onto her knees.

It gives her a perfect glimpse of both tear-streaked girls as teachers pull them apart. One is squirming in Lecter's grasp. The Psychology teacher is impassive, restraining the student as she continues to hurtle obscenities. Hysterical but pretty, thinks Will. She has that striking complexion, and especially with that color hair and those _eyes_ -

The hairs stand up along the back of her neck.

* * *

"I'd like to thank our new members for going onboard with this project!" shouts Jack over the din.

Celebration is snacks and sodas for induction. The Criminology Club swarms through the teachers' lounge for its first ever meeting, thanks to Gonz's permission. Their principal had given a standing ovation to the presentation on Tuesday. She thought Jack would never stop beaming.

He spots her now, clapping people on the back on his way over.

"Congratulations on passing," he exclaims. His hand whacks into her back.

She coughs. "My cheese cube is on my plate, Jack."

"So?"

"So," Will says testily, "it's not lodged in my throat." She scowls at his bemused face. "You don't have to do that."

He does it again and makes her cough harder, wheezing.

"Are you trying to kill me?" she croaks. 

Jack has a smug expression, and his eyebrows wiggle in the direction of the opposite corner. It's just Bella, chatting away with a man with sleek hair and a slate gray suit-

_Oh._

"Not yet," he muses. "Though if I did try to kill you he could be all doctorly and save you..."

A burst of laughter swells up from the snack table. Jimmy Price is holding a two-liter soda bottle, blinking at the exploded foam in disbelief. "Science!" he yells sarcastically, and everyone starts laughing again.

"Haha shut up," she mutters, though the loud shouts are enough to dim their voices. "Or I'm telling Bella you keep a picture of Dr. Lecter in your locker."

* * *

She's in the bathroom doing something important, namely avoiding Gonz's request for a speech. It wasn't hard to pick up, really, the way his eyes flickered towards Jack. Podium, then him. Repeat. Then sauntering over to Dr. Lecter for whispers and hand motions that clearly jerked towards Will.

"...co-founders could say a few words..."

There was no way she was giving a speech at the podium. She could picture lecturing at a university, but no way she was babbling about service and justice in front of a crowd of acquaintances. So she took her bag and left. It was easy to excuse her leave - _my dad just texted_ , she'd lied- before darting into the bathroom.

When she returns, the lounge is silent.

Her stomach flips at the emptiness of people. Brian is supposed to drop her off, Will recalls, her ride home on a day Mr. Graham can't make it and the school buses have long left with the dismissal bell. A rustle makes her halt on the threshold.

There's only the back of Dr. Lecter's shirt, tightening across the shoulders as he reaches for a briefcase-

He pauses, and for a skipped heartbeat, she wonders.

Will smiles sheepishly as she goes through her story, feeling stupid when he carefully considers her reasons. A thudding in her ribcage tells her that she's out of options. She's been stranded at school before, but always with the reassurance that a ride would come soon. It's lucky that Dr. Lecter sensed her presence, she thinks, except _how does he even do that?_

When he extends a hand for her backpack, she's ridiculously reminded of Aladdin offering a magic carpet ride. But Dr. Lecter isn't a stranger, and he's not after anything except maybe the well-being of an irresponsible student. He smells so good too, she can't help but step closer. A carpet bulge trips her and Will practically falls into his arms.

"Thank you," she manages.


	3. Chapter 3

Shouting and car horns ruin most of the cello cadenza Will is trying to hear. She can tell Dr. Lecter hates traffic, though only his lips tighten. Saint-Saens crescendos dramatically over the stereo. She waits until the traffic light turns green.

"What is it called again? I love this part."

"The Camille Saint-Saens cello concerto in A minor." His accent drags a lushness through the French composer's name. "An unconventional piece even for its day in the Romantic period, and a virtuostic favorite of soloists today. One of mine."

Trees and bushes fly by outside. Signs of civilization begin to disappear with road quality as they leave the downtown plazas behind. Will gazes out Lecter's polished window.

"Are you fond of the opera, Will?"

She watches the woods melt. Leather is supple against her back, and Will considers Lecter's voice. He owns a stone mansion with a stainless steel kitchen paneled in zebrawood, she imagines. Aged and refined, probably like the red wine he drinks.

Will listens as Lecter describes a soprano's pure clarity during a Rossini aria in Berlin.

"You must let me take you, after you graduate."

She shrugs. "Thanks, but I don't know about that. Public social events aren't really my thing."

"Then we can arrange a more private gathering. You are welcome in my office any time."

She hears him say _house_ for some reason.

* * *

The indigo sky darkens as they sit without talking. The Saint-Saens picks up tempo for the third section, and opening passages reenter in the solo register. Her eyes flutter as the low orchestral voices ebb and swell. Her teacher speaks with a rasp in his deeper notes.

"At the least, I will need fifteen minutes to deliver you home. You may sleep in the car to conserve energy for tonight."

Will turns against the seat back.

"Think about homework later. Go on, I will wake you when we arrive."

Yellow headlights reflect into her eyes as Will tosses into a fitful sleep. In her dream, an antlered deer leaps gracefully onto the road in front of them.

* * *

She screams.

The lump is a dead girl on the floor. Those shock-blue eyes are open, and Will covers her mouth. Flashes of white sundress and black mascara invade her closed eyes as she fumbles at an aspirin bottle in her pocket.

Her twitch sends it clattering down the cold tiles. _Empty_ , thinks Will. _He said it would be_.  _  
_

She'd come to the empty art room to fetch cake. One teacher had forgotten Elise Nichols' gift in the fridge, and had texted Dr. Lecter to offer the cake as club refreshment. _I'll go fetch it_ , Will had instantly said.

Dr. Lecter was serving them lamb-topped crostini, the _hors d'oeuvres_  declared in ways that made Will squirm in her seat. It wasn't erotic, nothing like that, but she got tingles down her neck whenever he leaned _too_ close to speak to her. Lecter had read her personal essays, driven to her house, and steadied her arm as she'd sleepily stumbled out of his car. His presence rattled her, back in the AP Psychology room.

It feels silly compared to a murdered classmate.

Her head spins when the footsteps pause near her palms, still pressed to the floor. Will swallows bile and looks up. Molded leather shoes extend into columns of glenplaid trouser, full-knotted paisley tie, and a blurred face of hollows and harsh planes.

"Will, what are you doing on the floor?" he says abruptly.

Never has she wanted to cry in relief so badly. He can see the body, Will thinks, and then he'll help her. She needs that now.

There is silence, then strong arms are lifting her up. Body heat and spiced cologne surround her as Will clutches Dr. Lecter's waist like a child. His hand removes a silk square with a flourish, clearing her eyes, cheeks, and mouth. Somehow a hand is stroking her hair as well, smoothing the curls along her head.

"This must have shocked you."

Will whimpers into his chest. "I wish I'd never come here."

"You mean school life." Dr. Lecter's voice washes over her, comforting as his hand strokes her hair. "Friends, classes, a routine that stabilized your life. The death of a classmate must be especially jarring in such circumstances."

"I just thought, since she was just missing..."

Tears are soaking into Dr. Lecter's waistcoat, and he must feel them, but his arms continue to clasp her there.

A chin brushes the top of her head. "Death is an inevitability all humans face, Will. Does that frighten you?"

"No," she says. "I've seen death before. I just...never expected to find _her_ , now. _Here_."

Her voice is rising higher. _A killer is on the loose_ , she marvels. The reality of newspaper stories and Internet articles has never seemed so intrusively close, so barely removed from her new high school world.

Hannibal Lecter's chest is sturdy against her wet cheek. His ministrations will embarrass her later, Will knows, but for now all she wants is to sink into his soft fabrics and lingering scent. She tries to listen.

"As your teacher, I will do all in my power to protect you from victimization. The world has its monsters, but we must be careful of the ones in our heads as well."

He sounds like he understands. Tentatively, Will brushes her eyes and frowns up at the psychiatrist. "What kind of monsters are you talking about?" she whispers.

"Impulses that have no place in our minds. People like us."

Will feels her heart catch. "And you can help me...keep these monsters out of my head?"

His eyes are lined with regret, maybe a bit of pity. "I can help you, Will. This means you must open your mind to these fears. Are you ready to for that?"

The hand is still warm on her back, close but not tight. She breathes to ignore the prickling at the back of her eyes, the urge to really _look_ at Elise Nichols's murder scene now. It's not what Dr. Lecter means, not unless Jack told him. Even so, he doesn't know about the little thrill of awe that comes every time she makes herself look.

It's an itch she doesn't dare to scratch. "How do I know I won't be more open to these impulses?"

Dr. Lecter draws back, cataloguing her face. "You don't," he says simply.

Without his paisley tie against her ear, Will feels the weight of Elise Nichols's body creep back onto her shoulders. She blinks pale limbs away from her corner vision.

"So if I try this and open my mind...it'll help me keep out the monsters?"

"It will be a start." Dr. Lecter smiles.

Will draws in a shaky breath and detaches herself from his forearms. The touch of pressed shirt remains tingling on her fingers as she takes one step. A white-clad lump is still lying there, by the wall.

When she turns around, Dr. Lecter is at the door. He regards her with a shuttered expression.

"I will notify the police. When you are ready, Miss Graham, your fellow club members will be awaiting you in my room."

The soft _click_ closes him out. Silence stifles the art room.

It's hard to believe the advice of a respected psychiatrist and teacher, even if it is Dr. Lecter. The last time she had looked, she'd gotten nightmares for a week. Now the dead girl's body pulls her feet forward, and Will relaxes her mind.

She lets her eyes drift shut and steps backwards.

* * *

 _Once,_ and red stains vanish off the sundress. There's a whoosh, and _twice_ sees the spotless ivory settle over pale skin, lovely alabaster that now holds a faint flush. Elise Nichols is a breathing girl by _thrice_ , stirring in her sleep.

The school is empty. Will closes the door, grimacing at its soft _click_. She doesn't want Elise to hear.

She walks silently like a hunter. Elise's chest rises with each breath, closer with each step. A cardboard box lies by Elise's cell phone, near her hand. Sleep loosens the soft fingers, but Will already knows why Elise is staying afterschool on a Friday. She doesn't need to browse text messages to know what's in the box.

So she pounces.

Elise's eyes fly open as she rakes at Will's iron chokehold. Her eyes are so blue, horror so evident that Will trembles under their urgency. It is methodical, how Will pins the girl's legs with her own to prevent kicking, how Will crushes her chest using body weight. Relief floods her when the wide eyes glaze over.

 _There_. Her damp forehead touches Elise's. She wants to make Elise understand, in this silent empty school, that she is loved. She will be respected, even in death, which was as swift and merciful as possible.

Elise is modest when Will scoops her up like a baby. She refuses to objectify or demean women. Will kisses each of the staring blues closed.

This is her design.

* * *

 She can't believe her ears when Jack waves the printout at lunch.

"...unbelievable, I'm going to talk to Gonz about this. She can't do this and expect to get away with it, can she? Oh, 'wannabe detective club sends frizzy-haired psycho to ogle corpse.' First of all, we're not wannabe detectives if there's a chance we can catch the killer! Lots of us saw the evidence before the police arrived. It's not like we sent Will in there either."

Seth cringes at the glare. "I didn't know she'd be paralyzed. Dude, stop blaming me for the cake, okay? I swear, my mom said she'd bring the chips and everything-"

There's a hand wave as Beverly cuts in. "Stop it. Both of you." Her voice sharpens. "Can we argue about something else? Anything? Freddie Lounds also called Will a psycho, but I don't hear you blowing steam over that."

"And frizzy-haired." It's hard to hear Bella's muted voice at first.

"Right." Jack almost snorts, but a glance at Bella makes him grudgingly add, "Your hair is great, Will. It's curly and a nice shade of brown. It doesn't frizz when you don't yank your hands through it. So...don't yank on it."

They focus on the article after that. From the huddled heads of the cafeteria, Jack isn't the only one who visited Tattlecrime.com last night.

"I hate how she does that," repeats Beverly, and leans back. "Refers to Elise as a _corpse_. You can't _insult_ someone who's just been brutally murdered by ignoring their actual name."

Will grits her teeth. "No."

"No, what?"

"Elise Nichols wasn't brutally murdered. Elise was strangled, choked, and crushed. But however twisted her killer's motives, it wasn't meant to be brutal. There was respect and affection when he took her life."

Her voice falters at the end, because everyone is gaping. Inquisitive eyes in green, brown, brown, hazel, brown, blue stare at her. Finally Brian looks up from the article, frowning around the table.

"Hold on, I thought he impaled her on antlers. Didn't you just say he was eating these girls? Now he loves them?"

Will cracks a smile.

* * *

Leaves spiral onto the wet black clearing as the gleaming dark car comes to a stop. Inside, its passengers' faces are lit in blue shadows as they turn towards each other.

"Who are you?" breathes Will in the dark.

Cedar and musk tickles her nostrils as his hand lifts to her chin. "Look at me," he warns, and she shivers because it feels like something raking down her spine. Her eyes close as his fingernails send tingles all over her scalp.

She tries to remove his hand. "It's too dark anyway. I just want to see who you are."

His voice hits her face as cool air. "I can show you." Then her hands are clasped in his, and Will is touching lines and hard skin. She feels a man older than her father. He thumbs at a scalpel, then switches to kitchen cutlery. Crisp shoes, old fountain pens, the stroke of a leather book cover. She can taste the red wine too, if she dared to lean for his lips.

Abruptly, the haze clears. Will clutches at her hands. "That's enough."

"Why?" His head tilts, casting a slant of light across sunken cheeks. "What are you afraid of seeing? You saw into the mind of a killer today."

"Not yours."

"Because you're afraid to try." He leans forward, lips twitching imperceptibly when Will shrinks back. "I believe that you can see me, in your own time. What stops you?"

"This whole place. It makes me uncomfortable, it's so cold. It's _really_ cold in here."

"For you, yes. Do you know why?"

Will shrugs. "I'm wearing a thin tank top, which I'm sure doesn't do much to block out the mist." A thought stirs. "Wait, aren't I dreaming? I should be able to pick out my own clothing."

His voice has an accent, she notices. "No more than you can choose your appearance in the real world. Your mental state reflects your actions and thoughts during the day." A nod towards her. "You are exposed because you have removed layers of personality recently, no doubt to don another mind."

 _The man who killed Elise Nichols_. Her breath catches.

"But it's so cold," she says, and hugs herself around the torso. Will draws her knees to her chest. A sideways glance catches him quirking his lips into a smile, voice smooth.

"This is your own mind, furnished as you saw fit. Clearly we are in my car, though details have been neglected. We lack tasteful music, a clock, and many other amenities you do not particularly care for." Head shaking, he raises his sleeve. "Still, I am dressed in exquisite style, no doubt with imported Italian dress shoes below. From your point of view, my face is cast in shadow. Is that correct?"

Will swallows, nodding as he relaxes back.

"My expressions will be hidden. You see nothing of my eyes because after all, Willow Graham is a girl who at best dislikes eye contact."

It's colder now, even though the wind has silenced outside. She desperately needs to see the time, and is dismayed to find her wristwatch gone. There's no clock in the car either. She has obligations elsewhere, and though she feels safe enough inside the car, she can't shake the feeling that _he's_ the one causing all the cold and undress in the first place.

The door opens.

"I have to go," she says, and looks back as an enormous shadow emerges from the trees. The stag rips at the ground, a trail of deep tracks etched in the soil behind it.

It's an aggressive creature, but all warmth and soft  _heat_ under Will's touch. She does not expect to inhale sharp cologne.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thanks so much to everyone reading! I honestly didn't expect this many hits from you guys (or bad chapters from me) so this all blows me away. If there's still interest in the story, I'll try to finish it!

Textured wool rubs her cheek, and Will sighs into the grain. It smells like spice, but woodsy. Rain patters to a flurry of piano chords, and a bump on the road jolts her eyes open.

_Well, shit._

"Oh my gosh." She recoils as if scalded. "I'm so sorry. It was an accident, I promise."

"Falling asleep on my shoulder?"

Will cringes, looking out at the wet, blurry treescape. She wonders if Lecter is angry at her for the display of impropriety. It was bad enough that he drove her home but now she had to _really_ make it awkward.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats.

"Sleep deprivation can be a result of too much stress. Your body is trying to recover."

Lecter's face is impassive, his eyes on the winding road ahead. In the air-conditioned car, her mind feels stifled.

"Did I...?" Will frowns, searching her memory. "Fall asleep in class? What happened?"

A nod is her only acknowledgment. "You did not lose consciousness during school, if that is your concern. Seventh hour passed, you stayed for the meeting, and I agreed to bring you home again. To _your_ home, of course," Lecter amends with a smile.

Seconds pass before Will realizes she's staring. "Oh. Of course. I think it's just the sleep...making me a little hazy. Thanks, Dr. Lecter."

The rain hammers for entry against the windows, its sound swelling to cover the intensity of her teacher's Rachmaninoff preludes. Soon Will is leaning to close her eyes again, careful to avoid bumping into -and staying _on_ \- Lecter's shoulder again. Lazy thoughts drift through her head. She wonders how she'd managed to fall that far towards the left. Maybe her head had slammed forward, and Lecter then shifted her against him instead. It makes her uncomfortable, but gives her a pleasant flush.

Casting her mind back, Will does remember classes and a club meeting. It's hard to tell if she's simply replaying memories or recalling the events of that day. Either way, she can't salvage her last dream, and for some reason that frustrates her.

* * *

 The locker slams, and two girls remain enraptured by a cell phone in the hallways. Will pauses to glance over the duo from last week's fight.

"Hey, you."

Clutching her books, Will halts. Her eyes roll when she sees one girl's expression. "Relax, I wasn't going to pass out."

A sneer, and she steps closer, rain boots echoing across the empty floors. "Thank God. Why are you skipping class, _Willow_?"

"I'm on an errand for Dr. Lecter."

The laugh makes Will tense all over. She can't place the girl's name, but remembers glossy blonde curls tossing as she laughed at Will's incident from week one. It means this unnamed girl is also missing class, and certainly not to deliver sweets to a teacher across the hall. Will sighs.

"So why are you skipping class?" she smirks. "Did you forget whether or not your eyeliner was waterproof again?"

For a moment Will thinks she's going to be assaulted. Her heartbeat slows as the girl's anger fades to annoyance. "Someone's going to find out," she hears the blonde say.

"That I'm taking fudge cakes to Mrs. Fairfield's class? Dr. Lecter already said he put rum in it-"

"Spiced dark rum aged in charred barrels, I know." Volumized eyelashes flutter down. "I was actually listening in class that day. And you don't have to pretend you weren't in the same room Elise Nichols's body was found in."

The remaining girl behind them hoots, and Will's shoulders loosen in relief. "So you're talking about Elise." _Not my rides home_.

"Well, yeah," she retorts. "It's obvious you're unstable. I'm surprised the school hasn't found out and put you in some special class. Is that why Dr. Lecter's sending you out on errands?" Her tone becomes sugary. "He doesn't want you passing out in class again, does he? Everyone knows you saw Elise's body first. I bet you fainted."

"I bet you would have if you saw her," grits out Will dangerously. "She'd been murdered, and her eyes were still open."

"You know, I feel bad for the killer, trying to get all blonde girls. Her hair wasn't actually that color, since Elise always dyed it." Shoes tap as the blonde leans back smugly. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

She actually screams when Dr. Lecter swings open the door behind her.

* * *

 

Local police and reporters find Cassie Boyle - _so that's her name_ , thinks Will numbly, when her dad tells her- dead in a field by nightfall the following day. Several miles away, Freddie Lounds kicks off her combat boots and locks her front door. She can't wait to upload the picture to her blog.

* * *

"Why her?"

Jack is striking the desk with a fist. Papers are strewn across the classroom, and blurry cell phone pictures of crows on pale skin haunt her mind.

"Because she looked like the others?" supplies Beverly, sipping a coffee.

"Lots of girls fit the profile," he grumbles. "This is the second killing from our school. We _knew_ Cassie Boyle and Elise Nichols."

Several club members are sitting with laptops open, searching Facebook profiles and local news stories for information. Chatter flows in the background, but Will tunes them out. Her eyes stare at the pixelated image. Ebony wings graze the border of Freddie Lounds' leaked photo, indicating crows. The corpse itself is naked, back arched, pale skin catching the late afternoon rays _just so_ -

Will pushes the screen away. She gets up, pulling out a chair next to Beverly.

"You alright?" her friend asks.

Locks of hair weave through her fingers. "I'm okay...but something's off about this murder."

There is sympathy in Beverly's face as she squeezes Will's hand quickly. Her grip loosens as the classroom door opens, and Beverly strains to look. A few guys have sprung out of their seats, calling out their congratulations as Dr. Lecter gracefully sets a platter on a desk.

His dark gaze meets hers. "A little nourishment for our researchers."

Despite the dread in her stomach, Will has to admit that Lecter's sliced meat sandwiches are _very_ good. She wipes her lips clean under the weight of his satisfied smile.

* * *

_Brrrrz_!

Sighing, Will lifts her hips and begins patting her pockets. Leather seats jolt as the traffic light turns green.

"Sorry about this," she mumbles, still concentrating.

It occurs to her suddenly that Lecter might be watching. She sits back down, cell phone clutched in hand as Will casts him a worried look. Her dad had first texted during the club meeting, urging her to go home immediately after school and stay inside.

"It's my dad," blurts out Will. The cell phone feels sweaty in her hands. "Last night the whole city heard about Cassie Boyle, and he's worried I'll get kidnapped by whoever's killing these girls." She rushes on. "But he's wrong. I think the police are wrong too, because there's no way the same killer who returned Elise to the classroom would do that to Cassie Boyle."

Lecter tilts his head back, calm as the traffic jam blocks them. "Yet she was also impaled on antlers."

"I think this killer was trying to make a comparison," she jokes. "The way you assign us compare and contrast essays."

The car jerks to a halt again, and Will throws out an arm to brace herself. The van just inches in front of them has a bumper sticker, curly pink  _Just married!_ letters that remind Will of cake icing. She tries to remember the last time she saw cake icing. A white sundress or wedding dress, absurdly, comes to mind.

"He's obsessed with keeping her pure," she says suddenly, in wonder. "For himself. Only a copycat would have left them exposed like that."

Lecter smiles, and for a moment the sun casts gold into his pressed hair. "Like a pig."

They drive past reflective offices as Will desperately tries to clear her mind, words tumbling from her mouth. "...they're blonde. They're all blonde. Just like his daughter."

Later, when the piano concerto ends, she texts her dad back.

* * *

_where are u_

Caught between laughing and exasperation, Will rolls her eyes. Her dad uses the grammar of a preteen girl, but his anxiety is all that of a haunted parent.

 _on my way back_ , she replies.

A noise from the driver's seat catches her attention. Dark evenings suit Dr. Lecter, she thinks, sharpening his broad jaw into crags. Lines are more prominent on his face, and for the first time Will realizes how much older and more worldly he must be. She stares at his profile since he has no way of knowing. Only the occasional car whisks by with its glaring headlights.

Her phone buzzes.

She looks down, face illuminated by the screen.  _in whose car_

It's difficult to place Lecter's position in her life at the moment. As a teacher, giving rides home to perpetually stranded students was likely illegal. Beverly and some other classmates had offered to drive her before, but Will had declined, excusing herself on grounds of habit and security. Now she was ogling her teacher in his car. Will sheepishly texts back, ' _it's a friend_.'

Her stomach is fluttering when the phone vibrates again.  _so its a guy_ , her dad protests.  _and i obvsly dont kno him._ Will grimaces and begins to glance away when he adds,  _whats his name!!_ _  
_

 _it's not important_ , Will tries, thumbs applying more force than needed.  _bc he's not going to kidnap me._

She turns the phone off after that. Pushing it into her pocket, Will searches for anything to break the silence. She recalls her dad's earlier text and clears her throat. "Do we know when the flash thunderstorm's going to hit?"

Lecter's face smoothes back into shadow as they pass the other car. "The broadcast was unsure," he says. "We may be dry one moment and drenched the next."

Will returns the smile before realizing he can't see it. "I'm sorry to keep you out so late," she decides on. "You have so many things you could be doing instead of evading surprise thunderstorms."

"Few of them surpass the pleasure of a student's company." Lecter shifts in his seat as his face remains on the road. "I am happy to discuss the things that come to mind."

It makes her bite her tongue. "There's a lot I don't want to talk about. Can we talk about you?"

"Of course."

"Why did you accept the teaching position? The class is so full of people who don't care about the subject, who are just taking it because it's always been an easy elective. It just seems like a waste of time for someone like you."

His eyes are hooded by shadow as usual, any light obstructed by a sharp brow bone. She holds her breath until his lips move. Lecter talks about mentoring Alana Bloom several years ago, of how she happened to be in contact with the principal from her old high school, one of the public schools in his general vicinity. He explains how the disappearance of the first Shrike victim had kindled his sense of obligation to both the community and its young people. It's all very touching, very logical, she thinks, and it answers her question not in the slightest bit.

She feels a perverse urge. "So in a way the Shrike is responsible for your decision. I suppose I should be thanking him for such a great teacher."

"Teachers merely develop the best of their students," replies Lecter easily. "My decision was never difficult. Should the FBI thank this copycat killer for your lead on the Shrike?"

Silence lingers as Will toys with her seatbelt. "If I were him, I wouldn't need that. Knowing that my kill had an effect would be good enough. I _get it_." She stops fiddling and looks hard at him. "What I don't understand is why a renowned psychiastrist like you would make so many professional sacrifices to interact with a bunch of _young minds_ who can't even keep their issues out of the classroom."

Just as she starts to panic, Lecter speaks abruptly. "You are referring to Cassie Boyle's words."

"She told me I was unstable," mutters Will. "Just before she leaned against your door and you opened it. Just before she got her lungs ripped out while she was alive. That's what it said on the news, isn't it?"

Before she sees it coming, Lecter has swerved the vehicle sharply to the right. Her hand slams against the glovebox to brace herself as soft curls fall into her face. Will brushes them away, turning to Lecter with alarm.

"This isn't the right exit."

Her voice is tense. Will's eyes widen as the car tails two others down the slope, city lights glittering up ahead. Clearly this isn't an alternate route to her house.

"Where are we going?" she demands uncertainly.

She doesn't know what she wants. They could be heading to a store, maybe, to pick up an evening snack or even to use the restroom. Perhaps there's a convenience store where Lecter will pay for two bottles of spring water. No, she can't picture that. Would he change out of his houndstooth checked jacket for a casual look before going in? More likely he needs to pick up a Baroque masterpiece from some classy art gallery here. Yes, that would fit, except for why he hadn't given her any warning about the turn. Could it be possible they were going somewhere else? Will pushes the idea away.

A full second after her question, Lecter turns to her with a pleased smile, streetlights and skyscraper signs washing his features in clarity. "To somewhere we can address your concerns in private. We are going to my home, where I can make us more comfortable."

"No, it's fine-"

Lecter casts a dispassionate glance out the window, where hard droplets of rain are already falling in fast, intense bursts. "This thunderstorm will be a dangerous one to drive through, Will. Text your father," he suggests. "He will want to know that you are safe for the evening."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I totally changed the second chapter because let's face it, it sucked. It's 98% different, I joke not. Also, notice for creepy chapter and creepier Hannibal.

Shivering, Will accepts his hand out the car, feeling oddly out of place. Looking around in the dark, foreign vases and reclining couches are implied in the psychiatrist's mansion. The gossamer veils let in echoes of the evening moonlight.

Sure enough, the roaring of thunder claps into a downpour of rain. Will turns from the window in amazement. "How did you know?"

Hannibal Lecter hangs up his scarf. "I could smell it coming."

"You're kidding," she snorts, admiring the lush decor. As he flips a switch, golden light floods the rich crimson and charcoal tones of the space, and paintings adorn the walls. It reminds her of the historical museum her dad once took her to. "Your house is gorgeous, by the way."

He dips his head. "Make yourself at home. I will make tea in the kitchen."

* * *

She rubs her temples, dreading her dad's text reply. He dad asked whose house they were sheltering at, and then the address. Reluctant to place Lecter in a compromising position, she had hand-waved the question.

_Brzz!_

Will feels her insides twisting. _let me talk to his parents,_ she reads.

"Is there a problem?" Across the study, Dr. Lecter bends to place a silver tray on a glass tabletop, hair glowing dimly in the lamplight.

She has to tear her eyes away and force eye contact. The cell phone jerks in her hand as explanation, and Will admits the cracks in her lie as she awaits Lecter's displeasure. It's hard to picture the situation getting any better, she thinks grimly, staring at red swirls in the carpet. A long blonde hair catches her eye.

Then the psychiatrist is speaking, and his voice is so _close_ that Will is distracted from his oak desk. Her eyes flicker to his malt brown suit, then settle on his lips.

"Doctor, I'm pretty sure this is a bad idea."

When Will runs hands through her curls again, Lecter's calm hand stops on her arm, startling her.

"Your phone, Will." He holds out a hand. Lecter hits the keys briskly and then he is holding it to his ear. "Yes, Mr. Graham?"

As a child she stayed at home to answer the phone while her dad rigged motorboats. Listening to adults alone in an empty room, Will had gotten plenty of exposure to the different tones and qualities of voices. She could recognize a conditionally polite one, or tell a timid liar from a saccharine one. It was rare to hear a voice so courteous yet so firm.

Will can't believe her dad isn't yelling, not even when Dr. Lecter tells him who he is. His face is composed, giving a calm chuckle. They even speak at length about Cajun food, Dr. Lecter citing a spice trinity that solicits a loud exclamation from Mr. Graham. The corner of the psychiatrist's lips quirks. He is a man in control, Will realizes. He does not pace or fidget as he bids good night and hands her the phone.

"I have your daughter at my house in Baltimore," he is saying. "I assure you, no harm will come to her."

Pocketing the phone, Will can't help but sulk a little. The offered teacup feels tiny in her hands, but she takes it and sips. The liquid is a hot amber tang. She wonders why Dr. Lecter didn't call her dad right away, if his charm was so foolproof. He just _had_ to embarrass her by having her text first before saving her in one fell swoop.

She rolls her eyes as he excuses himself to cook dinner, still restless over the discrepancy. A forgotten detail nags at her, but that too flies out with the glow of the tea as its warmth curls her toes.

Padding footsteps announce Lecter's return. Subtle aromas waft from the kitchen and dining table, low lights framing her teacher's form. It looks fairly angelic.

"Dinner is served," he says, poised like a duke in his estate.

She sniffs. "So he's driving up here after that?"

Concern flits over Lecter's poised features, deepening Will's scowl. "I take your welfare to heart, Will. Your father has agreed to entrust you to my care for tonight."

Tea splutters from her lips. "You're serious?"

Hannibal Lecter strolls toward a cabinet to pour a glass of shimmering rose liquid. "We will pick out your room after we eat. Now come. Your meal is waiting."

* * *

Chopin floats prettily over a simple meal -so he claims- of asparagus and caramel-braised pork. She swirls her stainless fork on her tongue and hums. It blooms into tendrils of honey and lemon in her mouth. "Oh, this is delicious."

Across the table, Lecter spears a cut, eyes lidded with shadow. "Organic and home-cooked. Try your pork."

The low lamplight reflects the sauce on her pork, and it's tempting, really. Will shuffles her feet under the tablecloth. "Er, okay." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dr. Lecter watching her.

"You are uncomfortable," he points out.

"No, you're being so hospitable!" she says, touching the fork to her plate. "I'm just, well, being stupid. Since we're chasing this cannibal and all, I couldn't help but picture the meat as-"

Lecter's slow-spreading smile increases with her blush. The sound of his deep chuckle gives her a heady lightness Will didn't know she could feel. "As human liver?" he says, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes. "I assure you, Will, this is not anyone's liver."

Thoughts melt away when the pork hits her tongue. "Wow."

She swallows, eyes opening to Lecter's intent gaze. "Do you want to try with some wine?" he asks bluntly.

"Isn't that...illegal?"

Embroidered cloth brushes her knees as Will looks down. Somehow she doesn't think Dr. Lecter is the sort to get so intoxicated over one glass of  _Vin Gris_ rosé as to offer his underage female student liquor. Images of sudden possibilities make her knife stutter on the pork.

"Young people often indulge in pleasures forbidden by the law," the psychiatrist is musing. His hands wield the knife in weirdly fluid motions. "Have you never sought the thrill of a secret hobby, the pursuit of a goal untouched by common authorities?"

Will stares.

"Often we must rely on our own judgments to tell right from wrong. Our lives wind in endless patterns without them. The knowledge of what makes us special is essential to breaking those barriers."

A cough lets her throat clear. "So do you think I'm special enough to, um, break the barriers against underage drinking?"

"Oh, Will." The shadows flicker against Dr. Lecter's gleaming eyes. "One taste is hardly a broken barrier." He rises without a scrape of the chair, stepping to a counter. A reaching motion pulls his suit jacket up, and Will has to bite her lip at the sharp fit of his trousers. She keeps her eyes down as he places a clinking glass before her.

She takes the goblet, already filled -higher than she'd expected- with pale pink liquid. It slides onto her tongue with a citrusy sip.

"Everything you give me tastes so _good_."

"Then you will eat more," he commands. Dr. Lecter's mouth tugs up fondly, and his eyes drift to her chewing lips. "You are right, Will. I am very familiar with the taste of teenagers."

* * *

The rest of dinner passes in a haze. Will stumbles out of her chair, feeling clumsy. "Can I help clean up?"

Hannibal Lecter eases her elbow out of a wine bottle's way, and guides her back into the study. He lights the room to bright fluorescence. "Stay here, Will." It sounds vaguely like an order to a pet. "I will do the dishes while you finish homework."

She lets him cup her cheeks in large, roughened hands. They could strangle her, maybe, but Dr. Lecter wouldn't. His fingers are brushing the skin under her collar, making Will squirm.

"You will want to be comfortable. Later tonight you will not have such luxury."

An invisible rock trips her. "Because...nightmares?"

He lifts her into a reclined position on one of his therapy couches. Strong fingers relax her spine so that Will's head is facing up, and she sighs contentedly as his legs nudge her knees apart. The circling motions on her scalp are almost hypnotic as they trail down her back. Will drifts her eyes closed.

Then Lecter is stepping back, making her frown in distress. "It appears I have made you more receptive to touch." His voice is observational.

"I like your apron," she yawns instead.

The sheen of striped pearl-white reminds her of a picture from the attic, or lately, the cardboard box in her room. Her mother wears a satiny cascade of ivory and cream, a smile on her face as family members clapped in the background. The memory makes Will convulse in a sudden sob, and Dr. Lecter crouches to dab at her face.

"Your emotions are understandable," he remarks, breath grazing her wet skin. "Later we will talk about them, discuss what makes you Willow Graham." Fabric slides back into place as Dr. Lecter straightens a lapel, standing.

She looks up at his towering form, so high above her. "That's it?" she asks. "We're just going to talk? But you said I had to do homework."

"If you have any left."

"No." Will tries to remember. "I usually try to finish it before I get home. Er, my home. Not yours."

"That is fortunate." She can hear the smile in his voice as Dr. Lecter considers her, lying confusedly over his patient's couch. "I look forward to having your undivided time."

The first headache pangs rack her skull a minute later.

* * *

Her mother was delighted to have a baby girl at an age when most women couldn't get pregnant. She'd been expecting a boy named William, but the fuzzy ultrasound was a joke, really. The Grahams named their daughter Will anyway. Her stuffed dog Oliver sits on her pink bib in the faded baby shower photo.

Mrs. Graham died five days after the picture was snapped. The doctors had warned about her frail physique, advanced age, and then the fever. Poor health care -too expensive- combined with endless shifts with work and a baby eventually wore her out. Will loves her, she supposes.

The Grahams moved around. Her dad found work from Shreveport to Biloxi to Lafayette. Yes, she was always the new girl at school. Always the stranger. Dressed just a notch too shabby to blend in, and teased by manicured girls in middle school for it. Worse, a female teacher had to draw Will aside to tell her about bras. Her dad hadn't noticed. He did find out about her empathy disorder, though.

As for her teacher, Hannibal Lecter is sexually attractive, sure.

One last secret? Will lies awake in her bed some nights and enters the world she's imagined for herself. Er, himself. She imagines being born William Graham, and sets his birth date a couple decades before hers. It was to keep her mother alive, but even in her fantasy, Mrs. Graham is absent.

In these dreams, Will Graham is a grown, scruffy man with ill-fitting glasses and haunted eyes. He lectures at the FBI Academy and gets recruited by Jack -he's there too- to catch a Shrike. Yesterday she woke up gasping, the killer's name flitting off her lips like a hummingbird into mist.

In these dreams, she and Hannibal Lecter are intimate. They don't have sex, but he cooks for her, knows her mind, and he protects her surrogate daughter. Will is his patient, sort of, and his friend, sort of. She's unsure if this reflects or increases her dependence on him in real life. Maybe both.

Maybe that's alright.

* * *

Groaning, Will touches her throbbing temples. Her throat burns.

"Will, you are awake."

There is a rustle of linen, and then a strange, sure hand is brushing her forehead. Will recoils from the contact.

It's just Dr. Lecter standing over her couch. Her couch is in a foreign environment, and his clothes are jarringly different. It takes four blinks to realize he's in silk sleepwear.

"Am I...?" She struggles upright. "Sick?"

The psychiatrist sits next to her, and that's when Will realizes her couch is a long bed. Memories trickle back like a spurting faucet. She's in his house, he prepared dinner, and he probably washed the dishes too-

"Your forehead is cool," Lecter says after a pause. "I surmised that much, and the lack of fever."

Guilt stabs her as she trails her eyes away. "Sorry I pushed you away. You were just trying to help me, and I lashed out. That was rude."

Dr. Lecter closes his eyes emotionally. "I did not want to touch you while you were unconscious and could not consent," he finally says. "Forgive me."

"Oh no, no, really, I should be the one apologizing. I _was_ conscious enough, but I seem to have this terrible problem with physical contact. It's not even you, since I know how you value privacy and all."

She babbles a few more apologies, feeling incredibly stupid. If she's fortunate, Dr. Lecter might just throw her out into the thunderstorm and let her die of humiliation alone. His physical closeness makes her stomach clench. She remembers him smelling the damn _rain_ and squirms.

A hand falls on her shoulder, stopping her. Lecter is _smiling_ , she realizes.

"It appears sleep deprivation has stolen you from my hospitality. You must give me a second chance to please my guest."

Her face heats. "Um, you're already very pleasing. Your hospitality, I mean."

Lecter helps her stand on her feet, affording her every courtesy as Will swayed on his arm. He stands as if he is the one fully clothed and she is the one in too-thin pajamas, firm chest outlined and _entirely_ too exposed.

* * *

In the kitchen, he tosses fresh kiwi and pomengranate seeds into a swirl of cold yogurt, his slender blade flashing as it slices.

Gulping the refreshing fruit, Will recalls losing consciousness on a couch. An actual couch. Dr. Lecter said he hadn't disturbed her while she was blacked out.

 _That's weird_ , she thinks.

* * *

It's nearly eleven by the time she gets out of his shower, hair fragrant with bitter herbs and sea minerals. The large towel is fluffy and azure blue. This bathroom is on the second floor, an informal suite that somehow still features huge mirrors, sparkling faucets, and a stock of designer hair products.

Uncertain about clothes, Will cinches the towel around her bust - _very_ tightly- and shakes her hair out. The blur and humidity erases the scrapes on her knees, softens her skin. In the mirror, she looks refreshed. Pretty, even.

Outside, the cool air hits her skin. Dr. Lecter sits in the doorway of a bedroom, pen strokes precise on a memo book.

He glances at her. Will can tell something's up by the way he goes rigid. "Did you find the bathrobe I left for you?" he asks, moving towards her.

"That was for me?"

It sounds like a feeble excuse even to her, but she'd taken one look at the luxurious charcoal robe and _noped_. It was a woman's cut, stylish as Dr. Lecter's silken pajamas, and _very_ expensive. She hadn't seen anyone else in the mansion, but an absent lady of the house wasn't out of the question. Travel, divorce, even illness-

The psychiatrist pauses, inclines his head forward. He breathes in. Will stares.

"Did you just... _smell_ me?"

Hannibal Lecter's eyes flicker open, for a moment catching an odd angle of light. "It was hard not to," he is saying, but Will is distracted.

His hair is relaxed from its harsh perfectionism. Ember-dark in the hallway, it falls softly across his forehead. She barely hears his voice on the transient nature of her chosen shampoo.

"It's already fading." The brusque tone carries a faint rasp. "Traces of it will be indetectable by morning."

She nods as he clicks the booklet closed. It disappears into the folds of his robes as he enters the steaming bathroom. Seconds later Dr. Lecter emerges, the feminine garment plush in his fingers.

"This will keep you warm," he promises. He lifts the material as Will fumbles.

It's hard to raise her arms when the towel knot slips every time. To her embarrassment, the towel ends mid-thigh, and her legs are shivering now. Will is glad that the towel is fluffy where she clutches it to her sternum.

A deep chuckle from Lecter sends hot coils into her belly, and Will feels her mouth go dry. She doesn't expect the cool hands on her back, as if guiding her into a dance spin. Yet the robe settles over her shoulders. It's heavily perfumed.

 _He's your teacher_ , she scolds. Will slips the towel from under the robe hem, and Lecter drapes it over a pajama-clad arm as if holding his coat. "Who uses this bathrobe?" she asks, curious despite her thrilling, _stupid_ hormone rush.

They pad down the halls in silent slippers.

"I'd hate to use someone's things without thanking them. Do you have a wife?" Like seventh hour hadn't giggled over his clean ring finger on the first day. "Or a daughter, maybe? Friends who sleep over here sometimes?"

Hannibal Lecter pauses. "I wouldn't want to scar you, Will."

"Wait, I'm sorry?"

Lecter smiles enigmatically. "I should hate to destroy your innocence," he warns.

_Ah._

* * *

 

Her room is located at the end of the hall, near the winding stairs that lead to the kitchen. Dr. Lecter discloses breakfast hours and departure time. School and classes seem a world away, thinks Will.

"I'm so glad my dad let me stay."

Lecter tilts his head. The touchable, _soft_ hair grazes his eyelids, and she smirks.

"You really charmed the pants off him," she mutters.

A hand guides the small of her back into the dim corridor. It feels safe, not like usual physical contact.

He is silent after assuring her that pajamas -her size, he is somehow sure- are folded and pressed on the fresh sheets of her bed. Now they approach the door, oil paintings and exotic plants aglow in the hallways.

"Earlier you asked about my family." Dr. Lecter glances at her. "Since I am not a father, I regard my students with a parental responsibility. Young minds are beautiful, opportunities to shape a life." The hand tightens  _just_ harder against her back. "I see you in much the same way, Will."

 _Yes_ , _paternal_ , she thinks, as his deft fingers steer her shoulder into a bedroom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm not sure how clear this is, Hannibal drugged her with the pink wine at dinner. For the life story interrogation, the idea is that he lifted her to a bed to keep an eye on her while he changed and showered, etc. The snack, shower soaps, bathrobe, and stuff is scented to neutralize any leftover traces of the drug before school tomorrow.
> 
> I also took a glance at some of the previous chapters, and they made me so embarrassed I'm probably going to go back and change some of them. This affects the plot. I'm so unused to writing long stuff like this for an audience, but since you guys are reading imma really make an effort to steer this in a non-crappy direction. Thanks so much!


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